


Deepest Desire

by Just_Another_Gay_Kid



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Angst, Daddy Kink, Implied/Referenced Incest, Implied/Referenced Sex, M/M, Malcolm Bright Needs a Hug, Masturbation, Underage Masturbation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-11
Updated: 2021-02-11
Packaged: 2021-03-18 05:35:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29363358
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Just_Another_Gay_Kid/pseuds/Just_Another_Gay_Kid
Summary: There was an urge inside Malcolm, a sickness creeping into his life. He had been aware of it for years, but it still hurt him every time.orMalcolm can't help but feel attracted to every father figure in his life, and he hates himself for it.
Relationships: Gil Arroyo & Malcolm Bright, Malcolm Bright & Martin Whitly, Malcolm Bright/Alan Delaney, Malcolm Bright/Original Male Character(s)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 23





	Deepest Desire

**Author's Note:**

> Please beware of tags before you start reading!
> 
> This is a very self-indulgent one that I wrote as a birthday gift for myself (happy birthday me!) and decided to share with all of you who also like to see Malcolm suffer. Enjoy!!

It was not easy for him to leave like that. After so much suffering, it was blissful to find someone who cared so much. It wasn’t that simple, and he knew that most of it was in his mind, but it was still nice. And he didn’t know why he had to leave. Yes, Nicky did lock him up in a closet and made him suffer terribly, and yes, his secret was out now. But why did he have to leave? There were only a few months left, sure he could get through it. Boarding school sucked, but it wasn’t all that bad, right? He had some friends there, people who were kind to him. It took him forever to get used to his new school, the new bed, unfamiliar walls and corridors, new faces, new names… _His_ new name. It wasn’t fair that he should leave it all so quickly like it never happened. It wasn’t fair that he should leave _him_ behind.

Malcolm was trying to make all the books fit in the suitcase when he heard a knock on the door.

“May I come in?” he asked.

Malcolm’s heart raced, as it always did around him.

“Please, Professor. Don’t mind the mess, though.”

Delaney pulled a chair and sat down.

“I’m surprised your mother hasn’t shown up yet.”

“I asked her not to.” the boy gave up and sat on the bed. “No one else needs to know why I’m going away.”

The professor nodded and looked at Malcolm. The boy had his head down, eyes fixed on his shoes, his hand shaking.

“Is it still bad?”

Malcolm nodded. Delaney was the one who found him in the closet and got him out. The boy was a mess that day, worse than ever. He had seen Malcolm have a breakdown before, but never that intense. It was understandable, though, considering the trauma involved. And when Malcolm told him everything that happened, it made even more sense.

  
  


“I don’t want to leave, professor” Malcolm whispered.

“I know this is hard for you, Malcolm” he held the boy’s hand. “But it’s for the best. You can’t stay here anymore. You need to go home.”

Malcolm raised his head to look at the man’s eyes. 

“Why? Because Nicky was a jerk to me?” he raised his voice. “I am the victim and _I_ need to leave? That’s not right, professor! Victims shouldn’t have to suffer more because of what was done to them. They shouldn’t have to carry someone else’s crime with them!”

Professor Delaney knew Malcolm wasn’t talking about Nicky anymore. He knew from the beginning the young man had issues with his father, that was obvious, but when he learned who Malcolm Bright’s father was… All that pain made a lot more sense.

“It’s okay, Malcolm.” he pulled him in for a hug. “They really shouldn’t. You’re okay.”

“I don’t want to go, professor.” The boy sobbed against the man’s suit. “I don’t want to leave.”

“You need to, Malcolm. You can’t stay here, not anymore. You need to go so you can be Bright.”

The words formed a knot on Malcolm’s chest. He didn’t want to leave. He felt good at the school. Truth was, he had found comfort in his professor. Delaney was a good man, who cared for him. He worried about Malcolm’s mental health, checking in with him when he was too distant in class, inviting him to his office, and asking if he was okay. For some reason, it was hard to lie to Delaney. He had this comforting aura like Malcolm could tell him anything. And eventually, he did. 

During his high school years, Malcolm spent a lot of time around his professor, admiring his skills and intellect. Delaney became almost a mentor to Malcolm, recommending him books unrelated to his classes, assisting him with other schoolwork, giving him life advice. And Malcolm would open up to him, from time to time. It was good to have someone to talk to, and it was easier than talking to a therapist. 

“I don’t want to leave, professor…” he whispered, holding the man close. “I don’t want to leave you.”

Those hugs weren’t unusual for them, not since Malcolm’s first significant panic attack: he was alone in the corridor, sobbing and not breathing right. When Delaney approached him and tried to help, Malcolm held his arms as hard as he could, desperate for something to hold and not collapse to the ground. His professor tried to keep him calm by holding him and saying reassuring things. It worked wonders, and he was the only one who could ease Bright out of an attack. There were a lot of troubled students at Remington, and it wasn’t uncommon for some professors to care for them when they needed support. As teachers - adults caring for those children - it was impossible not to worry about their wellbeing, so it was only natural that Professor Delaney would check on Malcolm frequently after that.

Malcolm knew his professor cared for him, more than just a teacher would. And he was right: they had gotten closer than just common students and teachers do. They had become friendly. 

“You need to go, Malcolm. You wouldn’t stay here forever anyway.” he took the student’s face in his hands. “Come on, this will be good for you, kid. Escape this wretched place. That’s the dream, right?”

It was no secret that students hated Remington. Malcolm didn’t, though. Not when he was with him. 

It didn’t take too long for Malcolm to see why he really liked to spend so much time with his professor. It wasn’t just pure adulation or the comfort of being around someone nice. It was more than that. Professor Delaney sure was smart, cultured, and educated, but he was also charming, kind, funny, and extremely good looking. And the best part was that he saw Malcolm as his own person. That did something to Malcolm’s young heart. And after he realized it, it all spiraled out of control: he wanted even more time after hours, he made sure to read every book as fast as possible just to show how smart he was, he tried to make his comments as eloquent as possible, along with a little exercise and better grooming of his hair. He liked to think maybe the man felt the same way about him. He knew it was a stupid fantasy, but he liked to think the man treasured their moments together as much as he did, for the same reasons. His time with Professor Delaney was all he could think about. And now he was going to leave.

“Do you _want_ me to leave, professor?” Malcolm frowned.

“What? I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t need to. You’re happy about this, aren’t you? You’re finally getting rid of me.” he got up and away from the man. “You’re happy that I won’t be following you around all the time.”

“Malcolm, please, that’s nonsense!” Delaney stood.

“Don’t lie to me, Professor. It’s all over you.”

Malcolm turned around to hide his face. He brought a shaky hand to his eyes to try and catch the tears before they could fall. How could he be so blind? How could he let his feelings carry him that way? It was embarrassing. 

  
“I thought you liked me…” he spoke under his breath.

“Malcolm, please, look at me, of course I like you.” Delaney stood in place, but his feet wanted to walk to his student. He didn’t: Malcolm was too volatile for that.

“Not the way I do, professor.”

He raised his eyes to meet Delaney’s. He felt no shame in admitting it. The rejection he saw in the man’s eyes stabbed him through the heart, and that hurt enough to cloud any embarrassment from admitting to his feelings. There was so much more he wanted to say, to confess, and to ask. He had so many feelings inside him, but now he felt only confusion and rejection. He was hurt, and he needed to be alone.

  
  


“Please get out of my room.” Malcolm closed a fist to stop his hand from shaking. “You shouldn’t be here, Professor Delaney.”

The professor didn’t try to argue any further. He saw the turmoil in Malcolm’s eyes, and he left him be. 

The sound of the heavy footsteps leaving his room was the last memory Malcolm had of his dear professor.

The ride home was sad, for more reasons than one. Per his request, Jessica only sent a car and nothing else. Malcolm needed the time alone to think. Unfortunately, he spent it all thinking about Delaney. He felt silly, stupid almost. He had a childish crush on a teacher, he knew it would never be more than that. But still, his feelings were very real, and it still hurt when they were crushed, even if he knew they would be. How could he possibly think Professor Delaney liked him? How could he let himself fuel that stupid delusion? It was clear to him what had happened: his professor eventually caught up to Malcolm’s real motive of interest, and he was disgusted by it, and after finding out who he was that disgust became repugnance. Malcolm was sure that was what happened. What else could it be? 

He held the paper tightly between his hands, crushing it with all his force. He had started a new poem, written especially for Delaney: a poem listing exactly why Malcolm admired him so much, and why he had fallen for him. It was still a work in progress, but it held truth. He planned on giving it to him after his graduation after he was done with all of his school business. He wasn’t sure if he would put the man’s name on the text, but he wanted to make it as clear as possible that it was him.

But that didn’t matter now. Malcolm wouldn’t graduate from Remington, he wouldn’t get to see his professor at the party, and he wouldn’t get a chance to tell him everything. Now Delaney hated him and probably thought he was sick. Malcolm felt it in his gut, and he agreed. He thought himself sick, disgusting, needy, and a complete mess. He knew that, just as he knew the sound of his own name.

He had been aware of it for years. He knew he had this sickness since he hit puberty. Even before so, he knew he wasn’t like the other kids.

Malcolm didn’t have many friends as a child, even before Martin’s arrest, and after that, the few friends he had left him too. But he still went to school and interacted with kids his age, and he heard all their conversations. That was a perk of being quiet and reserved: whenever he wasn’t lost in his own mind, he would listen to the kids whispering secrets during math class, exchanging looks at lunch, talking in groups like no one could hear them. And he heard what they were talking about. He knew family secrets and gossip, their vacation plans, how their siblings were being insufferable, how they hated their parents… And he knew all about who liked whom, who had eyes for whom. 

Most of the boys would always like the same girl and vice versa. There was always one friend in the group who would like someone completely different and they’d be made fun of. When one of the friends wouldn’t say who they liked, or say they liked no one, they were pressured into analyzing right then and there everyone of the opposite gender and pick the better looking one, or the most popular. Again, most boys would pick the same girl, and most girls would pick the same boy. Alone in his corner, Malcolm would often think of who he would choose if he had to _. Who do you like, Malcolm?_ He needed to have an answer ready, a good one if anyone asked him that. He didn’t want to lie, so he tried to really think about it. But the truth was: the girls didn’t catch his eye at all. Eventually, he chose the most liked girl and stuck to it. Not that he ever needed; no one ever asked him who he liked.

A couple of years later, the talks changed quite a bit. Now, instead of who was the prettiest, the boys were already talking about who was the hottest girl, who was the most likely to know how to french kiss... Now they tried to be more subtle about the subject of their conversation, to avoid disapproving looks from the adults at school. But still, Malcolm heard it all. He knew what feelings the other boys experienced, and he didn’t feel the same. They would talk about all the beautiful older girls at school, how hot they looked with lipstick, the silly things they would say to them if they could. Again, Malcolm had no eyes for these girls either. He was starting to understand what that meant.

He always felt different in that matter, but when his class had their first biology lesson on the reproductive system, he was sure of that. All the other boys were completely immature about it, laughing, pointing fingers, and making gestures. Malcolm wasn’t like that. He had seen those stupid diagram drawings before and even knew many of the technical terms. A perk of having a doctor for a father, really. He was spectacular in biology, and his father had explained the birds and the bees to him already, before those changes started happening in his body. He was educated, and he was prepared. 

But his father hadn’t explained everything to him. An important aspect of puberty was left out, understandably. Malcolm wouldn’t have understood it at that age anyway. But now he did. And he knew the other boys felt it too. 

Sometimes he wished he wouldn’t listen to the boys; their talks were getting way too graphic for his liking. No longer were they talking about the girls who possibly knew how to french, or who looked best in red lipstick. They could be downright disgusting, and Malcolm hated it. And he hated it even more because he didn’t feel that way about the girls, nor did he feel that for the boys. He felt the same urges that the other boys would talk about, but he never felt it towards anyone. He was starting to think something was wrong with him.

  
“I just didn’t know who else to ask.” His head was low and his face was red. “I didn’t want to ask mom.”

“Don’t be ashamed, my son. This is perfectly normal talk, and a talk a boy should have with his father.” Martin smiled. “You shouldn’t compare yourself with your classmates, though.”

“But they all feel it and I don’t…”

“Trust me, Malcolm, most of them are probably lying or exaggerating.” Martin looked at his son with kind eyes. “I bet half of them never saw any of the stuff they say.”

“That’s not the point, dad!” Malcolm was flustered. “They feel it for someone. I don’t. Never have. That can’t be normal. You can tell me if I’m weird that way.”

Martin’s face changed. He frowned and spoke in a lower voice:

“You are not weird, Malcolm. Sexuality is very fluid and diverse. You may take a few more years to feel attraction that way, or you may never feel it, and that is perfectly normal.” He looked at the boy. “Don’t ever let anyone convince you otherwise.”

Malcolm didn’t answer, but he nodded. He knew Martin meant what he said, but it still didn’t convince him. 

That bothered him for a long time at school. Those young teen boys did focus a lot of their energy on sexual things, and Malcolm didn’t like that at all. But still, he couldn’t help but hear their whispers around the school. 

When he felt it for the first time, though, he knew for sure he was so much different than the other boys: 

It happened very suddenly and it caught him off guard. His mother was doing something to their house and she had an interior designer over to plan everything. Malcolm got home from school and went to grab a snack in the kitchen. Jessica promptly interrupted her conversation with the man to introduce her oldest son. Malcolm was shy, and the man didn’t have a way with teenagers. Jessica made a passing comment about how it was odd to have another man in the house apart from Malcolm. The boy didn’t laugh at that.

He lingered around in the kitchen for a bit, not sure why. He didn’t exchange any words with the man (who was called Pablo) besides the quick “hello” when they were introduced. Something about that tall man captured Malcolm’s eye. Pablo was tall and bulky, wearing jeans and a shirt and blazer. The boots on his feet made him look even taller, while elegant and effortless. His hair was dark and slightly graying at the temples, carefully styled back. He had a full beard, trimmed to perfection. His eyes were of a light greenish color, with spots of amber in them. Something in his stance, his posture, the tone of his voice… Something made Malcolm want to stay around for a little longer, look at him for longer. Strangely, the man felt very familiar. 

Looking at Pablo felt good. He made Malcolm’s heart beat a little faster and made the blood inside him feel a little warmer. Looking at Pablo made Malcolm feel a little more alive. 

And then Malcolm felt it. That heat inside him dropped to his lower abdomen and to his crotch. His heart skipped a beat in his chest. He felt a burning need deep inside him, and he rushed to his room and locked the door. He did what needed to be done, before even getting to his bed. Allowing himself to be lost in the new thrill of it all, Malcolm let his imagination carry him away. What would it feel like to kiss Pablo? How would his hands feel on his back? What would it be like to be held by his strong arms? What did Pablo smell like? Would he enjoy it with an older man like Pablo? He would be experienced and good at it, he could teach Malcolm all about it… 

Feeling the heat growing inside him, close to his breaking point, Malcolm realized why the man was so familiar: _he looked exactly like Martin._

The next day at school, Malcolm felt sick to his stomach. During gym class, again the boys were talking about girls, and boobs, and sex. He felt sick. He would never fit in with the other kids, ever. He knew liking boys would make his life hard, as unfortunate as that was. But it wasn’t just that. Malcolm didn’t like boys… Malcolm liked men, much older men. He liked men who looked like his father. He felt sick. He was _sick_.

He felt sick every time he went to visit Martin. His father would always have a big smile on his face, and Malcolm would feel his stomach turn. He never particularly liked those visits. They always made him sad, they always reminded him of when people took his father away. He would remember the pain, the despair, the crying, the screaming, the nightmares… But he missed Martin way too much to stop. He needed those visits, and in a way, it helped. But now it felt wrong. Something had awakened inside him, and it made him disgusting.

This urge inside reminded him constantly how much he missed his father. He longed to hear reassuring words that wouldn’t make him feel bad later. He craved genuine support, no mind games or manipulation. He needed someone who would take care of him without gaslighting him at every turn. But he couldn’t have that. By forcing Malcolm to go through all that trauma, Martin had broken more than his heart. Malcolm would never feel those pure feelings towards anyone - not even Martin himself - and that was the surgeon’s fault.

Now in the car, riding back from Remington to his home, Malcolm cursed his father. For the first time in his life, Malcolm had had something good. If it weren’t for the monster he had as a father, Nicky wouldn’t have shoved him in that closet and the headmaster wouldn’t have kicked him out. If it wasn’t for Martin, Malcolm wouldn’t have those disgusting feelings towards his professor, and it would all be okay now. If it weren’t for Martin, Malcolm would be normal.

But he wasn’t normal. He never would be. 

As the years passed, Malcolm forced himself to deal with it. Eventually, he let go of his high school love for his professor (at least he told himself that) and became more accustomed to his sickness. As a young adult, those urges only became stronger. Seeing Martin go gray, become more comfortable and even more fatherly didn’t help his situation. Being in Harvard also meant frequent encounters with older men on the corridors, academics who pretended to be fascinated by the young minds on campus. It wasn’t hard to project his desires for Martin into those men. So many professors, doctors, academic researchers… Brilliant minds, with handsome figures and flattering words. 

Malcolm had lost count of how many times he had spread his legs for men who looked, sounded, and even smelled just like Martin. Older men, experienced and knowledgeable in many matters, who knew exactly how to make him feel good. Men who wanted to take him apart and feel every bit of him around them. Delicious men, who fucked him right and made him forget his problems for a few delightful minutes.

He’d lost count of how often he would leave his father’s cell aching, hard and needy, and he’d go home and jerk his fat cock fast, moaning _daddy_ and all the other names that weren’t Martin’s. He would tell himself, as he discretely palmed his erection on the car on the way home, that he only felt that way because Martin reminded him of all those men, and not the other way around. He would convince himself that he screamed _daddy_ as he came because those men liked it when he did it, and not that he specifically sought out men who liked that. He would tell himself that Martin was not the object of his desire, and he would pray that one day that would be true. 

He would lose himself in his desires, then he would go back to his father and face him as a good son. The son who wants to spend time together, who is just thrilled to talk about murder, and have a relationship with his dad. The shy boy who has trouble trusting people and opening up, and is just different enough to be cute. But then he would be there with Martin, vulnerable and casual. He would remember all the fun they used to have when he was little, all the stories and games they would play. He would remember how it was to have a father. He would remember he still loved him. Then he would leave with a knot on his throat and tears in his eyes.

  
  


“The FBI?” he heard the surprise and disappointment in Martin’s voice. “Do you think they will trust you? _Your father’s a serial killer_.”

“What I’m saying is…” Malcolm took a deep breath. “This is over.”

A wave of feelings washed over him. Saying those words was harder than he could have imagined. Malcolm felt dizzy, and his empty stomach turned. He heard his father talking, but the words did not register. He wanted to run, to go as far away as possible, to finally be free of this curse Martin put on him.

He cried on the way home. Tears left wet trails on his cheeks as they ran down to his chin and dripped to his sweater. He felt like his heart had been torn from his chest and now water was spilling from it. Malcolm was the one who said it, but it still felt as if Martin had broken his heart all over again. 

Now fully an adult, having a job, and needing every ounce of stability he could get, Malcolm pushed down and buried his desires. No longer on a college campus, he didn’t have the discretion necessary to act on his urges like he used to. Besides, it just made him miss Martin way too much. No, instead he kept it all deep inside, safe and contained, only being let out occasionally, when he was drunk and alone and horny. 

When the mood was right and the need was strong, he would slowly palm himself on his sofa with a glass of whisky on his other hand, thinking back to the old memories of Martin chained to a wall, cuffed, contained. Then he would think of the men who most looked like him, and all the dirty things they did together: the way they watched him play alone, how well they touched him, licked his hole, how they pressed their bodies on his, how they fucked him hard and how they made him cum everywhere. He would think of Martin, and he would stroke his cock, thinking of what he wanted to do most. He would put down his drink and he would spit on his hands, making them wet and rubbing them on his balls and the tip of his cock. Then he would speed his hands and he would cum thinking of Martin’s beard and how beautiful it would be to fuck his mouth then cum all over it. And he would clean himself, finish his drink in one go, and lay down to try and sleep, not thinking about what he just did.

Martin had ruined too many things for Malcolm already because of this sickness. All it took was for an older man to get close to him, or a man to show any kind of support for him, and it would all come back: the need, the desire, the perverse urges. That was true for every single man Malcolm encountered in his adult life, except for Gil.

Gil had always been like a father to Malcolm. He was the father Malcolm wished he had since the day he was born. Gil was a great man and had a way with kids. After Martin’s arrest, Gil spent a lot of time with Malcolm, keeping him company and caring for him and his sister when Jessica was in no condition to do so. Gil had always been loving to Malcolm, and treated him like a son. He loved Malcolm, and Malcolm loved Gil. As a father, as a friend, and nothing else.

When the FBI fired Malcolm and he moved back to New York, it was a surprise to see Gil after so long. It felt like no time at all had passed, and they quickly caught up on each other’s life. Malcolm had seen him briefly after Jackie’s passing, but they couldn’t talk much then. This time, they had (almost) all the time in the world. 

After the much-needed hug, Gil made sure to take the longest way to the crime scene so that he could talk to Bright (to Gil, Malcolm had been Bright since the day he chose the name). After many jokes and small talk, Malcolm opened up and told him what was on his mind. It felt good, having someone to talk to, and it was easier than talking to a therapist. Gil was proud of him for sharing because he knew how rare it was.

Going back to Claremont sure gave Malcolm a deja-vu. That place was marked with the corruption and sickness of his early twenties. Seeing Martin again, still chained to a wall and cuffed, made his head spin. He did his best to push it all down; some things were better hidden.

And just like that, the days started passing. He was close to his family again, he was making friends in the police, and his life was falling apart.

  
  


“Talk to me, Bright.” Gil handed him a glass and sat down. “What is going on with you?”

“Should we do it in chronological order or…?” Malcolm sipped his drink. “I don’t know, Gil. It’s my father, I guess.”

“Seeing him sure did a number on you, huh.”

“Yeah!” he chuckled, nervous. “It sure did.”

“Do you want to talk about it?” Gil gave him that familiar worried but comforting look. It meant _I’m here for you, but it’s okay if you don’t want it._

Malcolm shook his head. The last thing he wanted right now was to think of him. 

Gil sipped his drink and found something else to talk about. They discussed the latest case, shared stories about the NYPD and the FBI, talked about Jessica and Ainsley, about Sunshine, the new apartment… At one point, Gil started asking Malcolm to elaborate on little comments he made during an investigation, just to keep him talking. And it worked wonders. Getting Malcolm talking was actually very easy: you just had to ask him a question about a subject he was interested in, and say you didn’t get it all that well. Gil used to do that when Malcolm was a kid, to stop him from getting lost in his own thoughts. He had lost count of how many times Malcolm had explained the plot of The Count of Monte Cristo to him. He wanted to read the book at one point, but he was sure Malcolm’s rendition was better.

Malcolm was going off on a ramble about medieval weaponry and how misrepresented in the media it was. He had cited several movies, some who did it very wrong and others who did surprisingly well. He knew Gil wasn’t particularly interested in the subject, but he paid attention and asked questions, which was enough to keep him going. That was a very Gil thing to do, Malcolm thought. Growing up, he remembered not having anyone to share his interests with, except for Gil. In every stakeout, Gil would ask what book he was reading, what his criticism was this time, and how exactly was the author wrong. In his mind, Malcolm chuckled at how opinionated he used to be as a boy.

  
  


“...and that’s why a longsword is better!” he finished his drink.

“All right!” Gil laughed. “You know, I think sometimes your knowledge ruins movies for me a little, Bright.”

“How come?” Malcolm poured himself another drink and started sipping right away.

“You know how crime shows don’t hit the same for us? Or how nurses and doctors don’t really like Grey’s Anatomy all that much?” he nodded. “Kinda the same way now, but with swords.”

Malcolm held his glass to his lip and didn’t say anything, thoughts distant.

“Don’t stop telling me that stuff, though. I’m okay with having movies ruined if it means you’ll tell me stuff!” Gil smiled.

Malcolm looked at him and blinked slowly, the rim of the glass still on his lip.

“Hm?” he asked. “What’s that?”

“Okay, I think someone has had enough to drink.” Gil put his hand forward to get the glass.

Malcolm finished his drink before handing the empty glass to Gil. He was feeling slightly drunk, now that he thought about it.

“Can I take the couch?” he let his head fall back.

“It’s already yours, kid.”

“Good…” he whispered. “That’s nice.”

Gil laughed at him. It had been a while since he saw Malcolm in that state. But it was good, in a way: that meant he would sleep for a few hours, at least.

“Let me help you with that suit, shall I?”

Malcolm nodded with his eyes closed, and Gil started to help him. First, he had to take the jacket off, which was hard enough to do with Malcolm sitting on the couch like that. His tie was much easier, though. Malcolm opened his eyes a little confused as Gil undid his tie and the first few buttons of his shirt. Next up were his shoes. Gil had done this a hundred times already, and he knew Malcolm’s feet were sensitive. Carefully, he untied it and pulled it off, slowly. Then he pulled his socks, from the ankle down, careful to not touch the sole of his feet. He used to joke it was because the boy’s feet were too stinky and it would leave the smell in his hands forever.

“Do you want to take that shirt off?” he asked.

Malcolm opened his eyes and looked at Gil again. He nodded and opened his arms so the man could reach him. Gil stood in front of him and carefully undid all the buttons, then undid his cuffs and slid the shirt off his shoulders. Malcolm looked at his face, curious. Had Gil always been this careful with him? His touch was so gentle, so thoughtful. 

  
  


“Thank you.”

“For what?” Gil looked at him.

“For taking care of me.” Malcolm took his hand. “Thanks, Gil.”

“Of course, kid.” The man kissed his forehead, like he used to do when he was young.

He didn’t know if it was the alcohol speaking, his affection for Gil, or just the need for physical touch, but Malcolm felt like he could melt away in Gil’s touch. He could easily be guided to another reality by the soft sound of his voice, the smell of his aftershave, the way his hands held his body, how he kissed him. He could see himself letting Gil take him in his arms, hold his entire body with his hands, say such soft things, and kiss him elsewhere… Was Gil a good kisser? Would his lips feel just as soft if he were to kiss Malcolm in the mouth?

“Your belt next, yeah?” Gil brought his hand down before Malcolm could protest.

The young man shot his eyes opened and tried to say no, just realizing where his thoughts had taken him.

  
  


“Whoa!” Gil chuckled nervously. “Okay, big guy, I think you better handle this one.”

“Gil, it’s not-“

“I know, I know.” he raised both his hands and Malcolm missed his touch. “You had one too many drinks, that happens. Nothing to do with me.”

Malcolm just nodded along and reached down to take his belt off, careful to not touch the volume in his pants. 

“Right. Just one drink too many,” he repeated, more to himself. “One drink too many.”

Gil laughed and patted him on the back before saying good night and taking the glasses and the alcohol away.

Malcolm laid on the couch, wearing only his pants now. He stared at his erection and repeated to himself _just a drink too many, not Gil, not Gil_. But he knew that was a lie. When he closed his eyes he felt Gil’s touch again, on his wrists, on his neck, on his ankles. Just remembering Gil’s smell made his cock twitch. The thought of having Gill kiss him deeply, wanting to feel everything at once, devouring his mouth - that made his cock jump and really wake up. _Not Gil_ , he repeated, this time cursing under his breath. He palmed himself, then reached inside his pants. What could have happened if Gil had just taken his belt off anyway? Would Gil take his time with him, or would he just use him? Would Gil want him to call out _daddy_ as he came? Or would Gil be one of those men who like to call Malcolm _son_? He touched himself to these thoughts, all while cursing himself and his father. When he came, a tear ran down his face. It was over, now. His sickness had taken everything. It made him spill himself in his pants thinking of Gil, the only father he truly ever had. Martin had won. Malcolm was _sick_ , and it had cost him everything.


End file.
